House of Dust Read Online Free PDF Page A

devil’s advocate with me, lad,” the old man said. “The tourists have already been afforded plenty of inducements. Free whisky, hot and cold running tarts – what the hell’s the city coming to?” He coughed then started wheezing alarmingly.
    I felt my stomach somersault. I’d been a helpless witness of his first heart attack.
    â€œWater,” he gasped, waving his hand shakily.
    I dashed to the bedside table and poured him a glassful. I watched as he gulped it down.
    â€œThat’s better,” Hector said after a minute. He glanced up at me with a mischievous smile. “Did I give you a fright, Quintilian?”
    â€œYes, you bloody did,” I said, scowling at him. “It would be just like you to drop dead in front of me.”
    He croaked out a laugh. “I’m not finished yet.” He handed me back the glass. “How’s that girlfriend of yours?”
    â€œGirlfriend?” I repeated. That term would have really impressed Katharine. “We’re not really—” I broke off, struggling to describe the stop-start relationship that had been going on for eight years. It seemed to have been rekindled again in the last couple of weeks, but I didn’t have much idea why Katharine had suddenly reappeared.
    â€œNot really what?” the old man demanded. “Haven’t you learned to express yourself at your age?”
    I shook my head. “No, I haven’t. Happy?”
    The satisfied look that spread across the parchment of his face demonstrated that he was. In fact, he got on well enough with Katharine. Despite the fact that he was a misogynist of gargantuan proportions, she’d never laid into him. She reserved her fire for me.
    â€œAnd Davie? How’s he getting on?”
    â€œOkay,” I said, bending down to pick up the book that had dropped to the floor when Hector had his coughing fit. “He isn’t happy about being shunted sideways, but he’s probably the only person in the city who approves of the rise in crime. It’s given him plenty of opportunities for what he calls hands-on public order work.”
    â€œHis hands on the bootboys’ private—”
    â€œQuite.” I handed over the leather-bound volume. “ The Dialogues of Plato ?” I said, managing to decipher the Greek. On my fifth birthday the old man decided that the best way for me to spend my spare time was learning dead languages. My lengthy rebellion against that order started when I was five and one day old. “Why aren’t you up to your elbows in Latin as usual?”
    He tapped his head and winked. “The Latin’s all up here. Permanent resident.”
    â€œJuvenal on your mind? Worrying.”
    â€œNothing as worrying as what you fill yours with, Quintilian. Murders and mutilations and—”
    â€œAll right, I accept I’m a picture of depravity.” I looked at him, eyes wide open. “You still haven’t told me why you’re reading Plato. Not turning back into a fan of the old fascist, are you?” The Edinburgh Enlightenment had based their city-state on ideas derived and extrapolated from the ancient philosopher’s Republic and Laws .
    Hector shook his head. “It’s not Plato that fascinates me these days, it’s his protagonist Socrates. I’ve been reading the Phaedo . It’s hard to understand how someone as rational and rigorous as Socrates can believe in something as woolly as reincarnation.” He looked at me, the set of his face softer. “But he does. And he dies well because he believes that, in some form or other, he’s coming back.”
    I got up and returned my chair to the desk, the corners of my eyes suddenly damp. It wasn’t only the calm assurance of the old man’s voice that was affecting me. My former lover Caro – dead for thirteen years – had flown up before me, her dark hair glistening with the sheen it always